


Unicorn in Captivity

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Incest, M/M, Pre-Canon, Semi-Public Sex, twin 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Art History is meant to be an easy 'A'. (Peter and Gabriel are 17.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unicorn in Captivity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icalynn](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=icalynn).



> Written for the very generous and very (!) patient icalynn for hope_in_sight. I am so extremely sorry that this is months overdue. I hope it was worth the wait. ♥! Many, many thanks to aurilly and carmexgirl for kicking this into shape.

It's a muggy mid-spring day but it's cool inside The Cloisters. Against Gabriel's back, the flagstone of the colonnade seems to suck the sticky heat through the thick fabric of his uniform. With a clipboard propped against his hip, he takes meticulous notes while the docent speaks.

Art History is meant to be an easy A. Ms. Jurgens is a big believer in 'holistic teaching'. She says "there's more to education than grades, kids" and _participation_ counts more towards their GPA than test scores. Frankly, Gabriel doesn't know how she made it past the school board when she wears her skirt that short; it isn't art appreciation that has the whole lacrosse team in her class. But whenever he complains, their mother will only say "Gabriel, dear, she's charming," with that enigmatic smile Gabriel doesn't understand. It's the only class in fifteen years where Peter's skating on an A and Gabriel's barely clinging to a hard-earned C.

It's meant to make Gabriel more 'well-rounded' but at this rate, Art History going to tank his application to MIT.

Gabriel tries to concentrate but the lecture drags: the history of the Unicorn Tapestries is mostly speculation and the meaning of their narrative is subject to interpretation. Everything considered _known_ is really nothing but conjecture. He grits his teeth. The point of his pencil breaks and he stops taking notes in fit of disgust. It doesn't matter, anyway, how many dates or names or places he memorizes. He's had a perfect score on every pop quiz this semester and still Ms. Jurgens looks at him with a pitying smile. She hands back his papers with a red inked "Joie de vivre?" and a little scribbled frowning face that makes Gabriel feel inexplicably as if he's failing at more than just assignments.

Across the room, the knot of Peter's school tie is loose; he has the button of his collar undone, school blazer slung over one shoulder, and his white shirtsleeves are rolled messily up to his elbows. Peter's hair falls forward, too unruly to stay brushed back in this heat and he seems to sense that Gabriel's watching because he looks up, gracing him with a crooked smile. Then the kid beside him in a letterman jacket—Barnes? Bynes?—elbows Peter in the ribs, muttering something that makes Peter laugh. They leer appreciatively at Ms. Jurgens's thighs where her dress is riding up.

Gabriel forces his attention back to the docent, explaining provenance now: _Anne of Brittany, La Rochefoucauld, Rockefeller_, but from the corner of his eye, he's distracted. Peter muffles a yawn with the back of his hand. He arches his back, stretching sinuously, and his already untucked shirt hitches up, revealing a tantalising strip of tanned skin above the waistband of his uniform trousers before he lets his arms fall back to his sides.

There's a sudden, half-hearted applause that's startling; on instinct Gabriel joins in, his heart pounding shamefully to the listless rhythm of the clapping. Their tour guide steps aside, the lecture done, and Ms. Jurgens takes his place beside the tapestry. "We'll meet back here at one-thirty for lunch," she says.

Everyone fans out through the medieval passages, the sunlight through the stained glass windows dappling them with passing reds and blues and yellows. Gabriel moves with the momentum of the crowd that's thinning as they go until he finds himself in a deserted garden that's enclosed on all sides. Paved walkways wind a path through the foliage and fountains. It's overcast now, and, even in the open air, the heat is stifling. Gabriel's undershirt is wet through with sweat, sticky at the small of his back; he tells himself it's the heat that's making his cheeks flush.

+

It's Art History, not Fine Art or even Arts and Crafts, but Ms. Jurgens still insists they include sketches with their notes. She claims that they're not graded on them but Gabriel thinks they must be; it's the only plausible reason why Peter's acing a class that Gabriel barely understands. He finds a marble bench and settles his clipboard on his knees. Directly in front of him is a pretty, two tiered fountain—13th century, maybe? French, or was it Italian? Gabriel bites his bottom lip. A wave of guilt wells in his chest at how little attention he's paid to the docent's droning voice. With a penknife from his pocket, he shaves a new point on his pencil, focusing his frustration on the harsh rasp of the blade through wood.

Gabriel starts to draw thick, bold lines in a steady hand. He stares at the fountain and not his lap, eyes dragging along the curves and angles of the moulding, trusting muscle memory to translate what he sees to paper. It's a laborious process; Ms. Jurgens calls his work "torturously precise." She's shown him architectural blueprints and archaeological cross-sections that look like his sketchbook and has told him, "In art, there's no such thing as wrong." But Gabriel is _wrong_, he must be, because she also says that although he's drawing well, he "lacks heart," whatever that's supposed to mean.

Gabriel doesn't understand how being _correct_ is bringing down his average.

His pencil falters, graphite smearing across the page before Gabriel can catch himself. He wants to scratch out the error somehow, as if clean lines will clear the tightness in his chest, but if Ms. Jurgens is capable of being strict on anything, it's her 'no erasers' rule. He sighs and starts again, picking up neatly from where he was before the smudge. But the imperfection niggles at him, slowing his rate of progress even more.

He's concentrating on filling in the pattern etched around the fountain bowls when Peter is suddenly on the far side of the pavilion, his back turned towards Gabriel.

"Pete—" he starts, but Gabriel's voice is drowned out by the raucous laughter of his lacrosse buddies. They're all wiry thin like Peter, but taller, with more muscle on their frames. Gabriel's the tallest and broadest of them all but he hunches down in his seat and folds himself into the shadows, taking up less space than they seem too. He adjusts his glasses, and now, when he holds the pencil, his fingers tremble, adding inadvertent curlicues and flourishes to a design that's stoically geometric.

They're only horsing around, pushing and shoving like they do on the lacrosse field. Barnes (Brown?) trips backwards, his heels catching on the cobbled footpath. He topples into Peter, and Pete's sketchbook, notes and papers scatter. Deep within his chest, his gut and somewhere lower, dark between Gabriel's thighs, something rumbles like the growl of the storm clouds gathering. And maybe Peter senses it, because his head snaps up even as he laughs and his eyes lock with Gabriel's as if he's known all along that Gabriel was there.

Then, his grin morphs to something else, that lazy, easy, smile that's always at the ready for anyone who comes his way. Peter's teasing laughter drifts over his shoulder as he launches himself at his friends. Later, much later, when they're alone in their room, Peter will say, "They're not bad guys," and, "you'd like them if you give them a chance," but right now they're touching Peter, pulling at his shirt as they wrestle. Even if they don't mean anything by it, Gabriel still shivers despite the suffocating heat. He couldn't like them. He can't.

So, Gabriel draws. His wrist feels looser now. He shades in the puddles forming on the ground where Peter and his friends fall against the fountain's rim. Their hands plunge into the water to brace against the smooth marble of the basin, steadying themselves from tumbling in. It's dangerous because it isn't allowed, even when the museum is empty except for their class. There are rules and guards and probably cameras, and they'll catch hell if Ms. Jurgens reports them, but Gabriel can't bring himself to care. Not when Peter's gaze is steadily drawn to him, passing glances that start to linger, turning into stares. There's a flicker of a grimace across his features whenever Gabriel demurely ducks his head and Pete is forced to look away.

Then, Pete slips.

For one unending moment, Gabriel feels as if his chest is breaking, as he watches Peter's feet skid on the flagstone. Then he's ass first in the fountain, a _whoosh_ of water erupting out while he sinks _down_. And then as quickly as he's fallen, he's lurching up again, soaked through but laughing between a hacking cough. Gabriel's pencil snaps in two. When he glances at his lap to find his assignment ruined, splattered and blotchy from the water's spray, something inside him snaps, too.

It's just a heartbeat, a single breath of Peter's name before he's shoving Barnes roughly aside, his grip like iron on Peter's arm. He can't explain why he's so angry, but he is, shaking with rage and shaking Peter, too. He's a split second from decking all of Peter's stupid, reckless, meathead friends---good grades, MIT, and Ma's wrath be damned---but maybe they're brighter than he gives them credit for, because with just a hesitating glance in Pete's direction, the group breaks up and they drift out of the courtyard. Without them there, the garden feels smaller, like there's nowhere to escape.

"Gabe—"

But Gabriel doesn't want to hear it.

"_Stupid_," he spits. He pushes Peter hard and then again, harder still. Peter shoves back, trying to twist away, but he's exhausted from the fall and the adrenaline rush that followed; it takes nothing for Gabriel to spin him around and pin him face first to a column. The distant thunder is a steady rolling rumble but it's Peter's gasping breath where his back is pressed to Gabriel's chest that echoes around the empty courtyard.

Peter seems to get a second wind, because he struggles with a sudden burst of fevered energy. He's slippery wet, and Gabriel doesn't want to hurt him, but he _needs_ Peter still and whole and there and his. He kicks his knee between Peter's thighs and circles Pete's wrists tighter, not caring if it's his skin or Pete's that's chafing more. Gabriel _bites_, sharp and hard at the base of Peter's skull, feels his body spasm rigid and then relax.

Gabriel tilts his head, nosing aside the hair at the nape of Peter's neck, his jaw opened wider, lips sealing over the nodes of his spine at a better angle, now. He bites again, more viciously, sucking hard until Peter gasps, his hands scrabbling at the marble pillar but his body is lax and pliant. Gabriel worries the mark with his teeth until begins to redden, and then he rests his lips against it gently, soothing the edges with butterfly kisses.

This time, Peter's gasp is more a groan. His hips roll back, ass grinding lightly to Gabriel's groin, pressing closer when Gabriel stutters forward, his breath heavy on Peter's neck.

"Feel better now?" Peter's voice is slurred. He swivels his ass, bumping Gabriel's erection; Gabriel doesn't need to look or feel to know that Pete's hard too. Suddenly, he hates him, hates this, hates everything that ought to make sense but doesn't: Art History, woven unicorns, Ms. Jurgens' smiley faces that only ever seem to scowl.

He pushes away, trudging back to the bench where the paper of his sketchbook is drying warped and rippled.

"I'm sorry," Peter says. He gathers his things from where they're scattered on the ground and carries them over to sit at Gabriel's side. The pages of his workbook are littered with sketches: messy, crosshatched things that look like nothing but earn him that easy A.

"I'm sorry," he says again, softer this time. Gabriel shakes his head.

"S'fine," he says gruffly. It's not, but it will be, maybe, somehow, because Pete's still there, one leg tucked under him so that he can fit himself against Gabriel's back and rest his chin on Gabriel's shoulder. Water falls in cooling droplets from Peter's bangs, _pit-pat_ on Gabriel's collar.

Gabriel goes to rip the ruined page from the sketchbook, but Peter lays a hand over his to stop him.

"Don't."

"I need a good grade," Gabriel whines, frustration mounting in his chest again.

"I know." Peter says like he means it, and maybe he does. Maybe he knows. Gabriel shudders and leans back against him, letting Peter take his weight and keep him steady.

Peter hums, a sweet, surprised sound he muffles in Gabriel's hair. He traces his damp fingertips over the lines of Gabriel's sketch, hesitant at first, then bolder. The graphite smears in shades of black and grey, soft and hazy like a shadow of a fountain, reflected in the water. Peter's fingers twine with his, leaving smudges on his skin. He guides Gabriel's hand, tracing the curves that Gabriel has so meticulously plotted out. For once, Gabriel simply _feels_; the grain of the paper under his fingers, the slippery-smooth slide of the graphite, the press of Peter's chest to his back, his skin growing clammy from Peter's sopping shirt and warm with _him_. The thunder's rolling closer and rumbling louder. It starts to drizzle, fast, spitting drops that paint the fountain's water with the rain.

There's a crack above like the sky is breaking. Peter laughs and throws his blazer over Gabriel's sketchbook like a cloak. They grab their things in their arms and run across the courtyard, laughing so much it's hard to breathe. They stumble between the pillars of the colonnade that rings the garden.

Peter pushes Gabriel against the stone wall, using his body to shield Gabriel from the windswept spray. Against his chest, Gabriel can feel the points of Peter's nipples, hard and tight through the wet and clinging fabric of their shirts. Gabriel's hair is slicked to his head from the rain, water trickling down his neck and puddling in his ears; he tries to catch his breath but his sides ache from laughing and it's difficult to calm down when Peter's so near.

"You'll totally get an A for this," Peter's saying, but Gabriel barely glances at the mess of charcoal fingerprints on his sketchbook pages. Peter is so expressive, despite (because of?) his crooked mouth and Gabriel watches, enraptured, as Peter smiles and smirks and teasingly frowns. "Or like, a B at least. Tell Ms. Jurgens you were going for Impressionism and she'll bump it up to a B+..."

Gabriel doesn't know he's darted forward until he's sucking that lax bottom lip between his teeth, sliding their mouths together. In a distant kind of way he hears Peter's muffled gasp and the sound of his notebooks hitting the ground. Then, Peter's surging forward, pressing Gabriel tighter to the wall. He tugs Gabriel's shirt from his belt and smoothes his thumbs over the taut curve of his hipbones. Peter swivels his hand at the wrist, his fingers ghosting over Gabriel's groin and then grinding down on his fly, palming his dick from half-hard to all the way.

Suddenly, although Gabriel was the one to start this, he startles, afraid of getting caught. Even as he moans, opening his mouth wider under Peter's demanding kiss, he peers over Peter's shoulder. Peter must notice the way he hesitates because he's pulling back, a confused noise scratching in his throat. But they're alone under the colonnade and even if there's someone out there watching, the rain is falling in sheets too thick to see through. They're meant to be in the lunchroom by now but Ms. Jurgens isn't the type who'll notice who's missing until the bus is halfway back to school. Gabriel slides one hand up the back of Peter's neck to keep him close, and he thumbs at that fever-hot spot where there's a hickey, bitten and bruised.

"Pete, I—"

Gabriel doesn't know what he wants to say, but Peter says, "I know" anyway.

He's sinking to his knees, and Gabriel... Gabriel can't focus; it's like being drunk on nothing but the heat that's licking through his veins, hormones flaring wherever Peter touches him. And now, his fly is undone and Peter's hand dips inside his briefs, his skin cool from the rain where he wraps his fingers around Gabriel's cock. Gabriel concentrates as hard as he can on the shocking cold of the wall against his ass to stop himself coming the moment Peter's lips stretch around his dick.

They've only does this a few times before and Peter's still learning how; he can't fit much of Gabriel in his mouth, so he keeps his hand where it is and seals his lips to the circle of his fingers, moving his hand and mouth together until Gabriel's toes are curling inside his damp sneakers. Peter has his other hand down his own pants, jerking his dick with those hard, short tugs he favours. Gabriel threads his fingers through Peter's bangs, tilting his head to the side so that the head of his cock rubs on the inside of Peter's cheek and Gabriel has a clear line of sight down his body, straight between his legs.

In all his months of art class, Ms. Jurgens breathing down his neck, Gabriel's never understood beauty like he does right now, with Peter dishevelled and debauched, flushed and so very fucking eager. He comes with a bitten-off grunt, his back arching off the wall, and his hips thrusting up to force his dick deeper through Peter's fist. Peter holds him there, at the back of his throat, for as long as he can and then he's pulling off and spitting, trying not to gag. By the time Gabriel's knees give out and he crouches bare assed on the floor, Peter's come in three thick stripes across the flagstone.

Now, they're cold and shaking, and the graphite on Gabriel's fingers feels like the filthiest dirt. Gabriel yanks his pants up and buttons them; Peter won't meet his eye as he does the same.

"Peter," he starts softly. "Pete-- What are we doing?"

Peter shakes his head slowly, his expression, for once, unreadable. "I don't know."

He leans forward, tentatively resting his forehead on Gabriel's shoulder, nuzzling deeper when Gabriel curls his arms around him. "I don't know," he says again. Gabriel takes his blazer and tucks it around them both to wait out the rain that isn't relenting.

"It's okay," Gabriel whispers. It's not, but it will be. Maybe.


End file.
